


notes on the ceaseless watcher (et al)

by franzferdinand



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: . . . you know ;), Alternate Universe, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Will It Be You?, beau is. . . also an avatar of the eye but not as much, caleb is an avatar of the eye, it's a mag au for critical role, probably doesn't require intimate knowledge of the magnus archives tbh, probably some - Freeform, some - Freeform, somebody needs to bully me to finish this, the jury is out, the others?, uhhh we got your, will literally anybody read this?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25213759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/franzferdinand/pseuds/franzferdinand
Summary: Caleb Widogast knows a lot about fear. More than most people, in fact. He knows about the things that follow you in the dark, the things that are whispering just around the corner, the things that want only to take you apart and drain you of everything you hold dear. Something is coming, something either determined to consume him or determined to make him an accomplice. Caleb knows enough to understand that struggling is pointless, even if you want to try.Beauregard Lionett was trained to ignore fear, but the fears won't stop following her. She's determined to understand them, to see where all these broken trails lead. She was always one to pull up a rock and see what crawling things were hiding underneath. She can't do it alone.Or: an account of an attempt at a novel summoning ritual, and the events leading up thereto. Attached are statements intended to aid in the understanding of the persons involved, and perhaps in the understanding of why it all happened the way it did.
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett & Caleb Widogast, Nott | Veth Brenatto & Caleb Widogast
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	1. Statement #0192109

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I am, as the kids say, languishing with a little too much time on my hands. I really want to start a writing project and finish it for once, and I'm excited at the idea of finishing this. Random little things about this have been bouncing around in my brain for a while now, and I should quite like to get it out of my head. I hope somebody else finds this at all intriguing!

Statement of Bren Emendrud, regarding the death of his parents.

Original statement given September 21, 2019. 

Statement recorded by Caleb Widogast, archival assistant for the Cerberus Assembly. 

Statement begins. 

I was always a pretty bright kid. I was born in rural Bavaria, north of Munich, in Germany. It was farming country, and we were farming people. Nobody ever expected much of me. My parents loved me, sure. I was their only son, after all. But they would’ve been perfectly happy if I had settled down with Greta from the other side of town and worked the land until one day I finally laid down and died. That’s not to say they were unhappy when I turned out as ambitious as I did, not at all. It was just a little surprising. 

Rather than getting a vocational education, learning a trade, I went to secondary school with the goal of going to university. I had it in my head that I was going to grow up to be a scholar, somebody surrounded by books and papers. It sounds silly, but I really wanted to live in that ivory tower. There was something about growing up where I did, a farmer surrounded by farmers, that made me crave the escape of academia. I wasn’t interested in any romantic relationships, put hardly any effort into my friendships. By the time I was close to finishing school, there wasn’t really anybody I could say I was very close to. Even my parents, who I had always loved very dearly, were obviously preparing for their little boy to move off to Berlin, to bigger and better things. I wasn’t the sort of person who needed other people, no, but. . . I realized then that in many ways, in most ways, I was alone. 

I suppose the reason I wasn’t suspicious when it started is because there were two of them. One suspicious individual was one thing, but two? They each made the other seem trustworthy When we met, I had no memory of ever seeing them before, but that wasn’t unheard of. It wasn’t that my school was so big, but I had never been sociable even when I was younger. At that point, I hardly spoke to anyone outside of necessity. 

It started small. They came up to me in the library and asked if they could sit by me while they studied. They asked me polite questions about the books that I was reading, and I answered. They introduced themselves as Astrid and Eodwulf. I thought somebody finally wanted to be friends with me, and they seemed intelligent enough that it felt worthwhile. Like we could actually get close, stick together. It made it easier to ignore the slightly burnt smell that seemed to follow them like a shadow, the way their eyes lit up at the strangest times. Hearing about a tragedy on the news. Watching some skateboarder trip and skin his knee, break his board. It felt like I was imagining it at first.

By the time things got really strange I think I was in too deep. There would be times when we were talking, late at night, and they would. . . change. Talk about horrific things with joy in their voices. They thought that destruction was the most wonderful thing in the world, that the best thing they could do with their lives was to cause complete and utter devastation. 

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what I could do. They were. . . seductive. I started to believe them. I forgot what I cared about in the world, what I wanted from the future. It all started to seem so. . . pointless. I wanted to burn it all down, to raze the earth and leave nothing but the scoured land behind me. It would be beautiful and barren. 

Much of our time together is fuzzy now. The feelings, the pain and the pleasure, it all blurs. I know we destroyed other things before. . . before. Animals. Abandoned buildings. They taught me to love the fire, and the fire has to be fed. The fire was ravenous. Sometimes I could feel it, the endless gnawing hunger, and I knew what I needed to do. I had to be careless about who I hurt, what I destroyed. I was. Sometimes I still wake up seeing ash on my hands. 

Killing my parents was supposed to be the final severance. Not a death, they told me, but a rebirth, the creation of a new me, forged in flame and ready to begin a wonderful new crusade. They wanted to introduce me to their friends, friends who knew about the flame and the burning and the hunger. I just had to do this one thing first. In the end, it didn’t take much to convince me. One day I told my parents I was going out with friends, and to not expect me until late. I waited until they were eating dinner in our tiny little kitchen, the lights warm from the inside against the frigid night. Eodwulf and Astrid had gotten me the kerosene. The lighter was my own. The little wooden house went up like so much kindling. It was the easiest thing in the world, to begin with.

I was supposed to enjoy it. The burning. The sound of the screams, like nothing I had ever heard before. I was supposed to revel in the destruction of it, in the beauty of all my ties being severed, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t think of anything except for my parents dying. I thought I could smell the burning flesh, could practically hear it sizzling off of their bones, their fat popping like bacon grease in a pan. There was none of the exquisite agony I was promised, just nausea and fear and a regret like my bones liquefying inside me. 

Eodwulf and Astrid were grinning at me. I felt sick. I didn’t enjoy it. I think something inside of me just. . . broke. Whatever they were doing to me, I couldn’t take it anymore. I heard myself screaming, felt them holding me back. I think somebody heard us, maybe, or called the police when they saw the fire. Nobody ever told me.

I don’t know when I lost consciousness. When I woke up, I was in the hospital. In Vergessen. I was there for eleven years. I don’t want to talk about it. It isn’t relevant. What matters is that I got better, I got out, and I heard of you all. I thought you might be interested. I haven’t heard anything from or about Astrid or Wulf ever since I got out, just in case you were wondering. I don’t know where they are and I don’t want to look. 

Whatever they were, I don’t think it’s found me again. I still find it hard to light a candle.

Statement ends. 

Notes: 

This is fairly obviously an encounter with avatars of the Desolation. The subject was lucky that he escaped mostly unscathed, and research indicates that Bren Emendrud has moved onto a quiet life. Vergessen Sanitorium is real and still operational, and their records state that Emendrud was released a few years ago, his condition evidently improved. Any more detailed information was confidential.

Further research into the other avatars mentioned here has been limited, as no surnames were ever given for the two of them. We were able to locate what we believe was the relevant town, which experienced three house fires in close succession in 2007. This cannot be confirmed, however, as any information on the previous inhabitants of those homes appears to have been destroyed, and the only member of the staff that speaks German was unable to get any information out of town officials over the phone. 

Mr. Emendrud refused to comment when contacted.


	2. unknown and squamous things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions are made and very little is made clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've embroidered the phrase "ceaseless watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing" onto a t-shirt. my life spirals further out of control.
> 
> this chapter brought to you by the rare americans song "hullabaloo".

It starts like this: Beau isn't an idiot, and she’s pretty sure the Soul is hiding something. The suspicion wasn’t born out of teenage this-vaguely-religious-institution-must-be-up-to-something paranoia, either. There was something that the Cobalt Soul was not telling her. 

Well, something more than the usual slate of things they weren’t telling her. The Cobalt Soul was not a new organization, and she hadn’t been there particularly long. It wasn’t a shock that there might be some things that were above her pay grade, after all, even with her recent promotion. This felt different, though. She knew in her gut that something was wrong, and that this place might be her best bet at understanding the little she’d seen. If there was anything to understand and she wasn’t just chasing conspiracy theories around in her brain, that is.

If she was imagining things, it hadn’t started recently. If this was all some grand delusion, then the last several years of her life could be tossed out like a baby with bathwater, because no matter what she told herself, the worry nipping at her heels was not new. 

When Beau had joined the Cobalt Soul, she’d been desperate. She’d been a fuck-up, a dropout, a rebel surviving on the last of the money her parents had given her, back when they’d still believed she could make something of herself. The Soul had been a windfall, a company that didn’t mind her troubled past — they were willing to support her, in fact, as long as she cleaned up her act. She was beyond caring, at that point, and the oddness had barely occurred to her. Now, of course, hardly a day went by where she didn’t want to shake someone by the shoulders and ask why the hell they’d made their 20-year-old hire go to a gym several times a week alongside her training in research and academic writing, why they’d even hired her in the first place. She knew, though, that it would do her little good to ask. The higher-ups at the Soul were nothing if not tight-lipped, quick to obscure and obfuscate their intentions. It had taken her months of doing her best at all their esoteric requirements to even learn what, exactly, they even researched. 

Dairon, the tall and wiry person who had become her mentor, had told her that the Cobalt Soul researched religions and cults from around the world and offered assistance to governments attempting to deal with dangerous cults forming in their nations. Beau had seldom observed anything to do with the latter, but had been assured it took place, merely at levels of experience and areas of focus far removed from her own. 

The former, though. . . 

She shook her head and tugged her coat tighter around her shoulders. She should have brought an umbrella. The day was a gray and wet one with no signs of letting up any time soon, the drizzle casting a gray haze over the city streets. There were few people out, and those who were out were reflections of her, hunched figures avoiding the pervasive rain. As she walked, her eyes followed the reflected streetlights, the shivering puddles and their uncertain images. 

Was this a mistake? Beau grit her teeth and walked faster. It was rare she lost her nerve, but this whole situation was giving her a run for her money. At least she wasn’t far now. 

The Cerberus Assembly was not an easy institute to research. Their Wikipedia article was barely a stub, and their website was, for the most part, a horrible combination of ancient and vague. The exception was the tab inviting someone to give a statement. That page, which was visually more slick than the rest of the site, had a box for potential statement-givers to give their email address and schedules, so they might come in and spill their guts. More importantly, it was the only page on their website that had an address. 

The address Beau was walking to now. The address to a shady occult research organization. That she was planning to interrogate about her own shady religious research organization. 

She fought the urge to groan. 

The thoughts swarming in her brain were cut short as she entered the shadow of the Cerberus Assembly. The building loomed, taking up the greater part of the next block, all red brick and intricate molding. The windows were dark, giving no hint to what lay within. A carved granite headstone above the door read "THE CERBERVS ASSEMBLY", but there was no other signage that she could see. The stone was grown all around the edge with ivy, the same ivy that snaked up the sides of the building and across the ragged lawn. There was a proper, jagged cast-iron fence circling the perimeter which crows hopped along, dark eyes following her form. 

The gate shrieked as Beau opened it. The whole building seemed to lean over, its very presence seeming to scrutinize her, judging her worth. She swallowed and did not shiver, the sound of her booted feet loud against an honest-to-god cobbled walkway up to the black double doors. There was, above the door, a stained glass panel depicting three dog heads, teeth bared, circling a wide-open eye. 

She felt a ridiculous urge to knock. 

The whole thing felt more like an old, austere house than a research institute. Even so, she doubted anybody would hear her, and it seemed almost rude to go knocking on what were surely antique doors. She took a deep breath in, her nose filling with the smell of damp earth and something almost like smoke, and opened the door. 

* * *

Caleb shut the lid on a cardboard box full of files and sighed. He leaned back on his haunches and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, tired mind watching psychedelic colors bloom as he rubbed in little circles. He ached all over: pain shot all down his spine, his shoulders pulsed with every heartbeat. Even his fingers seemed to ache, tired of sorting through endless papers, filing and refiling. Library science wasn’t something he had experience in, and even then he knew that the Archives had been left in a complete disaster. A year in, mostly working alone, he had hardly made a dent in the stacks. Most of his time was spent sorting, trying to discern the Buried from the Corruption, the Dark from the End. It was exhausting. He had nightmares of files swirling around him like an unkindness of ravens, deafening and overwhelming, an all-consuming black. 

The floor was cool when Caleb finally let himself fall onto his back. Trent had said it would get easier to distinguish different entities as time went on, to see which took preference in any given statement, and that had been partially correct. That did not, however, make it any easier to read statement after statement of death and paranoia and filth. 

He sighed again and shoved himself back up to his uneasy seat, shaking fingers finding the thick Sharpie he’d tossed somewhere about. His head swam with fumes as he uncapped it, leaning over the box and scrawling “DESOLATION” along the lid in thick black letters. His writing was on top of layers and layers of tape and paper, the box obviously a product of several reuses. Perhaps the Spiral had buried further into the Assembly than they’d realized, and had damned their archives to disarray and confusion until the end of time. 

It was about as sensible as everything else around here. 

Joints complaining with the strain  _ (really, Widogast? Thirty-three with the bones of an octogenarian),  _ Caleb stood and took up the box with him. He tried not to think, not to Know what it contained. His brain, however, was always several steps ahead of him, even when it was a path he did not want to take. His own statement was tucked away in there, surprising him daily by not burning a hole through the cardboard. His statement, as much as it could be, under a false  _ (not false, no, just old) _ name, with details carefully left out, just enough lies to smooth over a painful truth. 

He squeezed his eyes shut as he walked down the stacks, though it did him little good. Between his damned memory and the thrice-damned Eye, he couldn’t do much to escape the present. There was a spot waiting for the box in his arms, and he grunted softly as he hefted the box and shoved it into its place. His arms and the burn scars on them did not ache, but the awareness of them burned in his mind. 

Caleb pressed his forehead against the shelf and let out a shaky little sigh. The silence stretched on, and he tried his best to let it. Silence, without the haunted voices of the statements or his own memories echoing in his brain, was a rare and precious thing. 

When the silence was broken, it was with the sound of gently dripping water.

“Nott,” he murmured, pushing himself away from the wall and standing up straighter, or as straight as he could with his spine as crooked as it was. 

And she was there, standing in the hallway cradling a mug of what looked like tea, slowly dripping water on to the floor. 

“Caleb,” She replied, holding out the mug. He took it gently, smiling at her. She was a thin woman, older than she looked, in a faded yellow dress under a green jacket. The dress was ragged and slightly damp at the edges, but that was less noticeable than her hair. It was visibly wet, slicked down to her scalp. He knew her hair was brown, but in the right light, the algae that ran through it glinted and gave the whole thing a green effect. She looked otherworldly, almost fey, with her large watery eyes, her brown skin wan and waxy. She was his best friend. His only friend, in these halls, besides his cat, and the cat didn’t have much choice in the matter. 

“Thank you, Nott,” he mumbled, taking a slow sip of the tea. It tasted like green tea, but the flavor was weak, and the tea was lukewarm at most. “I appreciate it.” 

“Well, someone’s got to make sure you don’t completely lose yourself down here, eh?” Nott smiled and came to stand by him, her hands clasped in front of her. She spoke as though there were something in her throat she could scarcely breathe around, and one half expected her to cough after every sentence.

“If it’s going to be anyone, I’d have it be you.” Caleb gave her a smile, arching his back and wincing slightly at the pops. “I just got that box of statements put away. I need to go back to my office and start sorting through what’s left. That box of Slaughter statements is nearly complete, and I still have to make some recordings.” 

Nott seemed to startle. “Oh! I meant to tell you, Cay. There’s somebody here who wants to see you.” 

“ _ Was?  _ Who is it?” 

“I don’t know.” she took his hand and led him down the hallway. Her grip was clammy and damp, though very obviously not with sweat. “She seemed kind of frustrated, though. I think she got kind of a runaround at the desk, and this place isn’t exactly easy to find your way around.” 

“Very true,” Caleb said absentmindedly. He tightened his grip on Nott’s hand and tried to steel himself. No matter how much he disliked it, this was a prime chance to experiment. He tried to focus as best he could, clearing his mind and focusing on his cat. He had left Frumpkin to snooze on the desk just past the door to the archives, the desk that might once have housed a secretary, but now just hid stacks of unused boxes and cobwebs. In a fuzzy way he could See the cat, sitting prim on the desk. After another deep breath and a feeling like freezing water washing down his spine, he was looking through Frumpkin’s eyes. He could still feel Nott’s moist grip on his hand, his only lifeline back to the world around his body. 

There was indeed a woman standing before the desk, wrapped in a blue peacoat with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She did not look pleased, and her mien was softened none by the various piercings in her ears or her severe undercut. She glanced around as though nervous, blue eyes darting, and a part of Caleb thought he recognized that look, or he Knew it. 

A twofold shiver ran through him as he pulled out of Frumpkin’s eyes, and he gently extricated his hand from Nott’s to wrap his arms around himself. The feeling was strange, but that was not the most unsettling thing about his line of thought. It was becoming more and more difficult to discern when he was remembering a thing or Knowing it, where his own mind stopped and the Beholding began. 

* * *

The woman at the entrance looked no more thrilled to see Caleb now than she had through Frumpkin’s eyes.

“Hey,” she said, pushing herself up from the wall and striding up to Caleb and Nott as soon as they’d come up the hall. She stuck a hand out. “I’m Beau. You’re the archivist?” 

Caleb just stared at her hand, tightening his grip on the now-cool tea in his hands just slightly. “I’m an archival assistant. I’m. . . the only archival assistant. There isn’t really an archivist right now.” 

Beau, as she was evidently named, pulled her hand back after a few moments and huffed a little. “You don’t have an archivist? Aren’t you the archivist if you’re the only one here?” 

“I suppose not.” 

Beau gave him a long, hard look, the nature of which Caleb couldn’t discern. “Can I ask you some questions?” 

Nott had moved past the two of them, down the hallway that led away from the archives. Presumably she was off to bother Vess off in artifact storage, who would doubtless attempt to shunt her off between research assistants, none of whom would really understand why she was trailing river water with her every step. Caleb let his eyes follow her. It was easier. 

“I. . . don’t see why not,” he said eventually. “You are. . . Beau?” 

“Beauregard Lionett.” she stepped closer. “I just think you’re the people I need to talk to about some things that are bothering me.” 

“Ah.” Caleb swallowed. “Would-- would you like to give a statement?” 

“What? No, no, I really did just have some questions.” She looked at him with a strange look in her eyes, her head cocked just slightly. For the first time since he’d seen her, Caleb thought about how he must look to her. He was wearing a rumpled button-up that hadn’t seen an iron in years, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He sent a quiet prayer of thanks that his bandages were still wrapped around his hands and forearms; he wanted nothing less than to explain how those particular scars came into being. Even without the burns, he was certain his hair was a mess, that his eyes were showing bags. He must look like a complete madman.

“Alright.” Caleb forced himself to take a deep breath. “I can make you a cup of tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> family issues shunt fanfic right down the list of priorities, but i'm still very determined to work at this. jonny d'ville threatened to resurrect himself and plague me with endless verses to "pump shanty" if i don't.


	3. Statement #0070305

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not dead.

Statement of Marion Lavorre regarding her daughter, Genevieve “Jester” Lavorre. 

Original statement given May 3, 2007. 

Statement taken by Essek Thelyss, acting archivist. 

Statement begins. 

I know it seems bad. I don’t want anybody to think I was a terrible mother, or neglectful, or anything like that. I loved. . . I love my daughter very much. Nothing that she did or does could ever change that, understand? 

(Archivist's note: Mrs. Lavorre went on for some time in this vein. Her exact words were somewhat abbreviated for concision's sake.)

Now. . . Strange things were the norm for us. My work kept a steady stream of near-strangers through our door, even if those strangers were heavily vetted and monitored. I am positive that the things that happened to my daughter were not because of something one of my clients did, whether directly or indirectly. I don’t know what I think it was, really, but it wasn’t that. 

Jester was such a bright child. In every way. I always wanted to keep her safe, to keep her away from the ugly parts of the world, and I’m amazed I did as well as I did. She was so curious, so insistent on seeing everything the world had to offer, and making her own mark on it. She devoured art supplies as a child; I got to see her paintings all over the walls, her sculptures on every table, hear her songs every night. She was the most creative soul I had ever seen. Her imagination was liable to run wild with anything it latched onto, and that was one of the reasons why I wasn’t overly worried when she started talking about doors that weren’t supposed to be there. It seems so stupid, now, I know, like I should’ve known, but honestly, how could I? My lovely daughter who has _always_ seen things where there weren’t any, talking about even more things that weren’t there? It felt normal! She couldn’t have been older than 13, it felt like she was just making portals to fairyland up in her head, to make up for how much time she spent indoors! How was I supposed to know that there _was_ something there? How was I supposed to know the doors would open? 

I’m getting ahead of myself. 

So. Jester started talking about doors in the Chateau that hadn’t been there previously. I didn’t believe her at first. This was until she started talking about the man behind all the doors. 

She called him her friend. Her best friend. She told me that he was always there for her, that he showed her amazing things. She called him ‘The Traveler’, told me that he could go anywhere, at any time, all at once. That he had promised to take her with him. Of course, I was terrified, I demanded that she showed him to me, that she showed me one of these amazing doors. 

That was my first mistake, I suppose. I can’t imagine what else I would have done. 

A part of me had hoped that there would be no door, nothing concrete to prove that this was anything but a childish fantasy. Of course there was.

I don’t know why the appearance of it unsettled me so much. The whole appearance of the thing felt strange, like the event should have been so much bigger than it was, so much more dramatic. It was just Jester and I, staring at a door that should not have been there. I had seen that corridor in the Chateau a million times, and there had never been a door there. And yet there it was, looking like every other door in the building, except for a slight curve of the top of the frame, like a little Roman arch. 

Jester knocked on it before I could stop her. I think I was still a bit in shock. There were so many long moments where nothing happened, where that awful hope came crawling back up my throat. . .

The door opened and Jester took my hand. She dragged me forward, into the door, and it felt like the moment where you jump into cold saltwater, all nausea and stinging eyes and shock, all over. It took a while to clear my eyes, clear my head, as much as I could in a place like that. 

It was a corridor. I can tell you that much. I don’t. . . I don’t know if I could say what color. It changed, I suppose, but not between any colors that I knew. It hurt my eyes to look at, but it was all there was. The walls were covered in frames of all sizes and styles, some paintings, some mirrors. The paintings were of. . . something. Patterns. Shapes. Some of them looked like paintings of doorways. I was afraid to look in the mirrors. 

Jester was gone. I hadn’t noticed her going, and even though the corridor stretched out long in front of me, I couldn’t see her. I spent a while screaming her name, walking forwards, trying so hard not to look at the mirrors, trying so hard to find her, to find a door. My stomach was still roiling, and my head was spinning. 

When I turned around he was there. I’m not ashamed to say that I screamed. It was. . . A man. I think. When I try to remember what he looked like, it just. . . makes my head hurt. I’m sorry. When he spoke, it wasn’t like I was hearing him with my ears, it was like his voice was just inside my head. It was the least strange thing about him. It seemed like he was in front of me for an eternity, like he was examining me, or laughing at me, maybe. I think I know it was a man because of that voice. Taunting. He only said one thing to me: "I'm sorry", like the spider to the fly. I don't think he meant it. 

Then, I swear, he smiled, and a door opened underneath me, and I fell for what seemed like forever through the dark before landing hard on the floor of that same hallway in the Chateau. I don’t know how long I laid there, or how long I was in the corridor, but by the time someone found me it had been hours since Jester showed me the door. I haven’t seen her since. 

Statement ends. 

Notes: 

Though only alluded to in Mrs. Lavorre’s statement, it bears mentioning that she worked as a courtesan for several years out of the luxury hotel “The Lavish Chateau”. It was in this environment that Ms. Lavorre was raised.

From what I can tell, there are other Spiral statements that refer to this “Traveler” figure appearing behind new doors, leading to corridors of various lengths and color. I have been unable to find any more concrete statements regarding its appearance, though it stands out that Ms. Lavorre appears able to traverse its doors without suffering any ill physical effects, and has enough influence with this Traveler creature to give her mother the same boon. I believe this bodes poorly for any hope of extracting her from the Spiral. It never did like giving up its prey.

Jester Lavorre has remained at large for over ten years since this statement was given. There have been a few tips called in to police departments that reported her missing, but those leads never panned out for the police or for the Assembly. The few sightings of her that have been reported were of a woman in her early twenties with unnaturally dyed hair, often talking to a figure the witness couldn’t quite make out. Research suggests that Marion Lavorre has all but given up the search for her daughter, as no new missing persons ads have been posted for some time.

Quite frankly, however, I’m not terribly convinced that Ms. Lavorre is very far away. I’ve been told there’s a door in the Archives now that wasn’t there yesterday.


End file.
